The Man Who Fell to Earth
by Goldleaf83
Summary: What's the problem with the new man in camp? Written for the 2016 Short Story Speed Writing challenge.


The Man Who Fell to Earth

By Goldleaf83

A tap on his door brought Hogan out of the scheduling headache that had absorbed him for the last thirty minutes. He could have arbitrarily pulled names for various camp duties, of course, paying no attention to who did what when, but he knew that fairness was essential for morale. It could be tricky to try to ensure that the skilled craftsmen in camp were available to do their work for the operation while at the same time also seeing to it that everyone did their share in the humdrum requirements of keeping the camp as functional as possible. Sharing out the most repugnant tasks equitably went a long way toward keeping the peace in the barracks population. Near the end of a long and tiresome winter, he needed that peace above ground to keep the underground work functioning smoothly too, so he conscientiously applied himself to such administrative tasks, even if they were his least liked part of his job as senior officer. Whatever its imperfections, having control over any aspect of camp life was a better solution than leaving it to Klink and his minions.

Nonetheless, the quiet knock on the door, instantly recognizable as Kinch's, was a welcome diversion. At least he hoped so, as he called "Come in" while swiveling on his stool towards the door, all too aware that Kinch could also be bringing him some problem that was more of a nuisance than scheduling was.

"New prisoner in the compound, Colonel," Kinch said as he came through the door, dogged by LeBeau and Newkirk.

"Just one?" Hogan asked. Groups were more common, although single arrivals were not unknown.

" _Oui_ ," LeBeau answered, drawing near while Kinch passed by the colonel to pull out the coffeepot.

Hogan's eyebrows went up as he surveyed the three of them. "I need to listen here instead of go over to Klink's office?"

Newkirk nodded. "This guy is special in some way, sir. They brought him in a staff car."

"'They' who?"

"The Gestapo."

Hogan frowned as he considered Newkirk's information. That was unusual: the Luftwaffe usually took charge of captured airmen. Why would the Gestapo be involved?

"This had better be working," Kinch muttered, pulling the speaker out of the belly of the pot and hooking it up. They'd had some issues with it shorting out not long before.

The office door opened again and Carter came through it. "They're inside. No funny business," he reported.

"And show time!" Hogan said, turning to look at the speaker as it sputtered to life.

"—lein Hilda, show them in, show them in!" Klink's voice sounded less fussy and more anticipatory than usual.

"Captain Fischer," said an unfamiliar deadpan voice, no doubt the officer in charge of the prisoner. " _Heil_ Hitler."

"Welcome, Captain Fischer! And _this_ must be Sergeant Wiley. Please sit down, Sergeant. We don't want to tax you with standing too long."

Hogan sat up straighter; Newkirk and LeBeau exchanged looks; Kinch raised one eyebrow; Carter frowned. None of them could remember Klink ever offering a prisoner a seat during the initial internment interview.

"Thank you, sir." The new voice was clearly American, Midwestern by the accent.

"Here is the paperwork," Fischer said. "Sign here. And here. And here. And here."

"I guess triplicate isn't enough anymore," Hogan said drily.

"Sergeant Wiley is now in your custody," Fischer snapped out. " _Heil_ Hitler!" The door snicked shut behind him.

"Hmm," Hogan murmured. "The Gestapo may have delivered him, but they don't seem much interested in him now. So why does he rate the special treatment?"

"Welcome to Stalag 13, Sergeant Wiley. For you the war is over." Klink went off into his usual speech, which Hogan had heard enough times that he could have given it himself blindfolded. But Klink's delivery lacked its usual gleeful pride and overbearing pomp. In the midst of the speech, Klink made a sudden deviation. "I have read your file with attention, Sergeant. I take it you consider yourself a lucky man?"

"Yes, sir." Wiley's voice was guarded.

"I believe a man has only a certain amount of luck in his life, Sergeant. And it is possible to use it up. You, of all men, should understand what I mean."

"I suppose so, sir."

"Then stay quietly here the rest of the war. Do not try to escape. No one has ever escaped from Stalag 13"—this mark was chorused by the five men in Hogan's office—"and you should not push your luck. You most likely have none left. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Kommandant." Wiley's voice was wooden.

"I will have our Sergeant of the Guard take you to our infirmary. Schultz!"

The door clunked open. "Yes, _Herr_ Kommandant?"

"I want you to personally escort Sergeant Wiley to the infirmary, Schultz."

" _Jawohl, Herr_ Kommandant. I will do so right after I take him to the delousing station."

"No need for that, Schultz."

Hogan crossed his arms tightly. Skipping that routine was highly unusual for any entering prisoner—Klink's official reasoning being that he never knew where they had been and what they might have picked up. There was something to that; good hygiene was essential in a large group of men living together in close quarters, and lice spread dangerous diseases. But Hogan knew perfectly well that the psychological component of being stripped and deloused was equally important in the Kommandant's mind: it made men feel the control of their captors over their bodies and stripped them, quite literally if briefly, of their rank, reinforcing their new status as prisoners. But Klink seemed uninterested, for some reason, with this prisoner, and that was enough to raise Hogan's suspicions.

"Given that Sergeant Wiley left the hospital this morning, I will assume that his state of hygiene warrants skipping the delousing station," Klink continued. "There is no more antiseptic place on earth than a German hospital! But I want a complete report from Sergeant Wilson on Wiley's physical condition, by the end of the day, for the official files. See to it that Wilson understands this, Schultz."

"It will be done, Herr Kommandant! Sergeant Wiley, if you please." Hogan could envision Schultz marshalling the new prisoner out as he turned to look at his men. Aside from the scrape of a chair, the speaker went silent, Klink presumably returning to his own paperwork.

"What's it all about, Colonel?" Carter asked as Kinch unplugged the coffeepot and carefully began packing it away.

"Yes, why does Wiley rate all the special treatment?" LeBeau wondered.

"I don't know, but we'll start with the obvious checks," Hogan answered. "Kinch, call London for any and all information they have on him. Newkirk, put out the word that no one tells him anything about the operation till he checks out."

"Wiley didn't seem to care about Klink fussing over 'im," Newkirk mused.

"No, he didn't say much at all," Carter said.

"I think maybe it's time for me to mosey over to the infirmary, check out our supplies there," Hogan said contemplatively. "By the way, Carter, how did Wiley look on the way into Klink's office?"

"How did he look? What do you mean, sir?"

"How did he move? Did he seem injured?"

"Oh! Yeah, he moved real stiff, and he was limping. Favored his right leg."

"Not surprising if he landed badly parachuting down," Newkirk offered.

"No, that wouldn't be surprising at all." Hogan sounded abstracted as he rose and reached for his cap.

ooOoo

"Colonel Hogan!" Sergeant Wilson sounded surprised to see the colonel, as well he might: Hogan always scheduled his check-ins on supplies ahead of time, and the colonel's own health was good enough that he had seldom needed the medic's services personally. Although Hogan interviewed all newly interned prisoners, he always did it in his own office, never interfering with the standard introductory medical checks. So Hogan turning up in the infirmary out of the blue, and twenty minutes into a check-up with a new prisoner, was unusual enough to surprise the medic.

"No hurry, Wilson," Hogan said affably, glancing over at the new man seated on the table, buttoning his shirt.

"This is our newest arrival. Let me introduce you. Colonel Hogan, this is Sergeant Wiley. Wiley, this is our senior officer, Colonel Robert E. Hogan."

Hogan had drawn near as Wilson spoke. He held out his hand, and Wiley took it, shaking firmly and looking him in the eye, always a good sign in Hogan's book. "'Welcome' always seems rather inappropriate to say to a new guy here," Hogan said lightly, adding more seriously, "but we're always glad any airman made it down in one piece, Wiley."

The sergeant swallowed visibly—and hard, it seemed to Hogan, ducking his gaze. "Uh, yes sir. I'll agree with that."

Schultz abruptly entered the building. "Sergeant Wilson, are you finished? I will escort Wiley to his barracks, if so."

"Yes, I'm finished with him. Wiley, you get some rest: you still have some recovering to do."

"Where are you putting him, Schultz?" Hogan inquired as Wiley carefully got to his feet. Stiff, just as Carter had said, Hogan noted.

"Barracks 13," Schultz answered.

"Lucky number 13," Hogan answered ironically. "Maybe we should do what the swanky hotels do and skip that number. No thirteenth floor for them, no Barracks 13 for us."

"And no Stalag 13?" Schultz asked, the merriment in his eyes matching the chuckle in his voice.

"Well, it just wouldn't be the same now, would it, if we were Stalag 14?" Hogan teased back.

"And Kommandant Newmann would be very put out if we took his Stalag number." Schultz shook his head in mock sadness.

"Barracks 13 in Stalag 13 okay with you, Wiley?" Hogan asked, turning his attention back to Wiley.

"I guess so," Wiley said with a shrug. "They all sound pretty lucky to me."

"You a lucky guy, Wiley?" Hogan asked, curious to see how the new man would respond after the exchange in Klink's office.

Wiley was silent a moment before responding. He looked toward the window, though there was nothing to see through the frosted glass. "I'd say so, sir." He didn't seem prepared to elaborate on his comment, and Hogan glanced over at Wilson, noting that he was looking at the young man with some concern.

"Schultz, please see to it that Wiley gets a bunk squared away and some rest," Wilson requested.

"Carter is probably hanging around outside," Hogan suggested. "He'll give you a hand, Schultz. Tell him I said to help you get Wiley settled."

The big German nodded. " _Ja_ , we will get you a bunk and a rest. It is a lot to take in, when you are new here."

Wiley nodded. "Thank you, sir. Thanks, Wilson," he added with another nod to each of them as he followed Schultz outside.

Hogan rounded on Wilson as soon as the door was shut. "What's up with him?"

Wilson looked grim. "I saw he came here in Gestapo custody, Colonel, so I checked him out thoroughly. That young man has been through the wringer."

Hogan could feel the hackles rise on the back of his neck. "Caused by the Gestapo?"

"No, I don't think so, sir. He had some serious injuries, all on the mend now. Probably from bailing out. He's gotten good medical treatment. Didn't seem traumatized when I mentioned the Gestapo bringing him here."

"How did he react?"

"I'd say … bemused, perhaps."

Hogan studied his medic. "Not a term I'd usually associate with time spent in Gestapo custody. Wiley seems pretty quiet. A man of few words?"

"Maybe. I got the feeling he's still trying to come to terms with something. Could be he saw his crew torn up pretty badly before he jumped. Or had a narrow escape."

"So … shell shock?"

Wilson nodded. "Maybe. Nowhere as bad as some: he's responsive, answers questions, just as you saw. But his mind is elsewhere. Seems like he's trying to cope with something, put things in order in his mind."

Hogan nodded. "Let's keep an eye on him. He may need a hand."

ooOoo

Two days later, Wiley reported for his standard induction interview with Hogan. He had passed all his checks with the men of Stalag 13, both those in his barracks and Hogan's own crew, and London had confirmed both the sergeant's physical description and his presence on a B-17 that had been shot down in a raid several weeks earlier. No other survivors had yet been reported.

He seemed to check out. Only one thing had given everyone pause: not once had Wiley asked about escaping from Stalag 13.

Hogan turned from the bench that served as his desk at the expected knock. It was tentative, unsure—hardly unusual for a sergeant about to be debriefed by a colonel he had met only once, Hogan thought. He was still unsure about Wiley: his gut said this was an injured man that needed help. But his behavior was unusual enough that Hogan wanted his whole story before deciding whether Wiley would be staying as part of the team or getting transferred elsewhere.

Hogan had the feeling he would be hard to move, though: Klink seemed inordinately proud of having him in Stalag 13, asking after the new man each day at evening roll call, though he had been unusually close-mouthed about why when Hogan had asked him. "He hasn't seen fit to tell you, eh, Hogan? Well, far be it from me to rob a man of such a story."

That had certainly piqued Hogan's interest. He would have gotten Newkirk or LeBeau in to swipe Wiley's file, but the team had been occupied the last two days with a different mission for London, and the Wiley issue hadn't seemed critical enough to move to the front burner. But now with the information on artillery developments that London had requested gathered and on its way to them, Hogan had determined to clear the mystery up. Talking with Wiley was the obvious starting point.

Wiley entered at Hogan's "Come in" and came to a careful at-attention stance and saluted. Hogan returned the salute. "At ease, sergeant. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable," he added, gesturing to his bunk.

Wilson had been firm that Wiley shouldn't be kept on his feet for too long. "Right leg sprained, muscles wrenched in his back with some very deep bruising, a dozen shrapnel wounds in his leg, abdomen, and shoulder, some burns: that young man has a lot of healing still to do, Colonel." Klink had made no demur about Wiley being excused from roll call for at least the first week at Stalag 13, and his barracks mates had reported that Wiley showed no signs of moving from his bunk between the beginning of roll call and its end—though he didn't seem to sleep well either. Whether that was caused by physical pain or something else, no one seemed sure.

So Hogan watched as Wiley carefully lowered himself onto the lower bunk, using the post for balance, and then stretched out his right leg. The young man kept his eyes on the floor once he was seated: not the type to watch his surroundings carefully or in curiosity, Hogan noted.

"How are you settling in?" Hogan asked.

"Fine, sir."

"The boys in Barracks 13 treating you all right?"

"Yes, sir. They're all fine."

"Wilson told me about your injuries—said you were healing well from them."

"I think so, sir. It will just take some time."

"You were in the hospital for several weeks after your capture?"

Wiley nodded.

"How were you treated?"

"Fine, sir." He hesitated, then added, "Better than I expected."

"How so?"

"Well, I was an enemy soldier to them. But they all. . ." he trailed off.

"Yes, Wiley? They all what?"

"They all treated me well."

Hogan sighed internally. This didn't seem to be going anywhere.

Abruptly Wiley added, "Even the doctor, the surgeon who patched me back together, told me, 'Although we are enemies, I am a doctor first, and I will do my best for you.' I didn't expect that from a Nazi, but I guess he was impressed—I mean, he confirmed it for the Gestapo."

"Confirmed what?"

Wiley looked up at Hogan, licking his lips. "You'll never believe me, sir. I don't hardly believe it myself, even though I lived it. I know it happened."

"I've believed impossible things before—sometimes as many as six before breakfast," Hogan said with a smile, hoping to draw Wiley out further. He had the sense he was finally getting to the heart of the mystery.

"I survived jumping from my plane without a parachute."

Hogan sat back. The kid had to be joking. But he'd said it with absolute conviction—and yet at the same time he obviously seriously didn't expect the colonel to believe him.

"Tell me the whole story, Wiley. Start at the beginning, go on till the end, and then stop."

Wiley took a deep breath. "We were flying a mission to Berlin—we'd made it and dropped our load on target and we were on the way back. A fighter had caught up to us, and we were taking fire from him. I was in the ball turret trying to get him, and I could see when _Peaches_ , our plane, that's what we call her—um, called her—because she's so sweet. Anyway, I could see she'd been hit." He shivered. "The whole plane shook and there was all kinds of smoke. When it cleared for a moment, I could tell half the wing was gone, and I could feel us beginning to spin."

Hogan nodded. He knew that sickening feeling all too well.

"I managed to scramble back into the cabin—I could tell I was hit, but I didn't think it was bad, and I knew I needed to get to my 'chute. It wouldn't fit down in the ball with me, of course."

Hogan nodded again, not wanting to interrupt the younger man, who was deep in his story. Hogan could visualize the situation Wiley had found himself in perfectly. At about 5'7" Wiley was a fairly small man, as ball turret gunners had to be. But the ball turret was such a tight fit for most gunners that like Wiley they had no extra room to wear their parachute while in the air.

"We . . . _Peaches_ was on fire," Wiley went on, his voice hushed. "I could just hear the bell ringing to evacuate the plane. There was fire between me and the cockpit, and Bailey . . . well, I could see he was beyond helping. I looked for my parachute but it wasn't where I'd left it. We were at such a crazy angle by then. I couldn't find it, couldn't see it at first, then I did—and it was on fire too. All that silk, just going up in flames. And I thought, oh Lord, what am I gonna do?

"There was a gap in the side of the plane, and I knew I could either stay in the plane and burn . . . or leave it. I remembered my grandad's saying, about being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I stood there, holding on and thinking, well, _Peaches_ was burning like hell, and there was all that cold blue sky. So . . . I jumped through the hole."

Hogan had almost ceased breathing. Wiley was staring in his direction, but Hogan knew that the young man wasn't seeing him or his office. He was seeing nothing but that ocean of sky he had found himself falling through.

"I . . . I remember tumbling through the air for a few moments, thinking to myself, or maybe I was praying, saying, I don't want to die—I'm only nineteen and I know nothing of life. And then, well, I guess I blacked out. We were flying at 20,000 feet, so I fell close to four miles, but I don't really remember it."

He stopped, still staring forwards. Hogan consciously reminded himself to breathe, then nudged the young man forward in his story. "What do you remember next?" he asked gently.

"I woke up in this deep snow drift under a fir tree. There were broken branches near me; I guess those and the snow cushioned my fall. I tried moving my arms and legs. I was hurting, but I could move. I couldn't believe I was alive. I just kept saying that over and over to myself: I'm not dead. I'm still alive. A patrol found me not long afterwards, took me to the hospital. The Gestapo kept coming by. They thought I must be a spy, since they'd found me without a parachute. How could I have fallen from a plane and lived, without a parachute? But that German doctor said no, all the signs from my injuries said I was telling the truth and anyone who survived a fall like I had deserved special attention. So I guess he saved me from my injuries and from the Gestapo too. He even gave me a certificate, saying I'd survived falling so far. At least, that's what they said it says." His hand groped at his pocket, pulling out an envelope and staring at it before handing it to Hogan who took it, opened it and scanned through it.

"That's what it says all right, Wiley," he affirmed.

"You . . . read German, sir?"

"Yep. Handy talent to have around here."

"I guess so. So that's my story, sir. They kept me at the hospital till the other morning, and then they sent me here."

Wiley looked back up at Hogan. "I feel . . . so disconnected. I keep . . . I keep staring at the sky, and the ground, and the trees. It's like . . . I see them all so sharply, so differently. I still don't know why I'm not dead, sir."

Hogan crossed his arms. "I don't know either, Sergeant. Seems like you are one hellava lucky guy."

"That's what the Kommandant said when I got here. He said I'd used up all my luck at once. Do . . . do you think that too, sir?" Wiley sounded almost painfully earnest in asking.

Hogan shook his head. "No, I don't think luck works like that. It's not something that there's a set amount of in your life. And there's different kinds of luck. You got lucky on the worst day of your life, Wiley, when your plane got shot down. Doesn't mean you won't get lucky again when you're playing cards, or finding the right girl. A lot of the time, we make our own luck. I don't know why you got lucky that day, but I think there's a good chance that someday you'll figure it out, realize what you got saved for."

Wiley nodded. "I just wish . . . I wish I knew now."

Hogan regarded the young man in front of him for a long moment, then made his decision. Wiley was no enemy agent. It was an open question whether he had lost his nerve, though.

"Well, Sergeant, you've wound up in an unusual place, a place where we depend on luck—but also on preparation, hard work, and tight security."

Wiley looked away and down. "You have a tunnel? You're planning an escape from here?"

"A tunnel, yes. Escape, no. Stalag 13 is more than what it appears to be, Sergeant Wiley. I run an operation here, a kind of 'travelers' aid' society to help people out of Germany—rescued airmen, people on the run from the Nazis. We do other more dangerous work too, harassing the enemy. It's underground work, not flying, but what we do is important. I need the silence, loyalty, and willingness to work from every airman stationed in this camp. Can I count on you for that, Wiley? We can always use a lucky man here. You won't have to participate in the dangerous side of the operation. We have a lot of teams with different kinds of jobs and responsibilities. Kinch will do an assessment and see where you can be of the most use, if you say yes."

Wiley hesitated. Hogan said nothing: a volunteer was useless if his heart wasn't in it. No doubt Klink's words about sitting out the war safely were warring with Hogan's offer.

"Yes, sir," the young man answered finally, his words slow but firm, a commitment. "I'll be glad to serve here under you, Colonel Hogan. I'm not sure how much use I can be, especially smashed up like this, but I guess if I landed here alive, maybe I'm meant to help out here."

Hogan smiled. "That's the ticket. You'll heal up, and we'll figure out how to use you here on the ground: maybe on lookouts, maybe making supplies—we'll see. Welcome to my team, Wiley." He stood up and crossed the room, offering his hand.

Wiley stood carefully. A smile ghosted across his face. "I want to look forward, sir, not back. And live for the moment. Maybe someday after the war I'll go back into the sky, but a ground job—or an underground job—suits me fine for right now."

Hogan returned the smile. "Those are words to live by, Sergeant."

ooOoo

 _Author's Note: Wiley's story is an amalgam of two Allied airmen, both gunners, who survived falls from their planes without a parachute during World War II: American airman Sergeant Alan Magee, who lived through a fall from 22,000 feet in January of 1943, and Flight Sergeant Nicholas Stephen Alkemade, who survived a fall from 18,000 feet. I borrowed the details of the attack on Magee's plane and his experience with the German doctor, and from Alkemade's story I took the details of his landing and experience with the puzzled Gestapo. Both seem almost unbelievable, but are also well documented. Both men spent the rest of the war in POW camps; Alkemade was shot down the night of the Great Escape from Luft Stalag III and was interned there just a week later. After the war, Magee continued to work in the air industry and even qualified for a private pilot's license._

 _I should add that my portrait of Wiley's reaction to his fall is entirely my own, based on my own imaginings rather than any historical portrait and is not intended to bear any resemblance to any real or fictional person. I have loved_ Hogan's Heroes _since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy. I acknowledge their ownership and that of Bing Crosby Productions and intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story._


End file.
